


C’est l’amour et blessures

by JackyM



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Blackwood is Autistic, kind of!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyM/pseuds/JackyM
Summary: It was wet and cold out, but Jon didn’t feel either anymore.Perhaps because he’d been out in the wet and cold for so long, it simply failed to register to him any longer.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 76





	C’est l’amour et blessures

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fic I wrote based on an RP with logicalDemonness!!! She had the idea for this and it was PERFECT so I had to write it out!!! Normally I do not write fic for things I am not fully caught up with yet, but I made an exception here! As such, I am only in Season 3, so no spoilers in the tags please fhghgh. ;w; 
> 
> This is canon divergent but not really tbh??? Just a slight edit of circumstances that lead to a marginally different outcome. 
> 
> My first time with both these boys, and my first time with this fandom, so! Sorry for any inaccuracies!!! ;w; Also, I'm not British, so if there are some Americanisms in here, I am so sorry. >w<
> 
> "C’est l’amour et blessures" is a lyric from a song by Lemon Demon, and the draft title for this fic was also a Lemon Demon lyric from a different song. >w<

It was wet and cold out, but Jon didn’t feel either anymore. 

Perhaps because he’d been out in the wet and cold for so long, it simply failed to register to him any longer. 

Perhaps because nothing was really registering anymore, or at least, not as much as it used to. Intense focus and intense fear had a way of doing that for him. They muted everything else, at least everything else that concerned him. Hunger, sleep, being too wet or too cold...they were all needs and boundaries that felt eerily distant. 

He’d never been to Martin’s before, though he knew his address. Why he knew it was beyond him. He didn’t follow Martin home even when his suspicion of Martin was at its greatest, and Martin had only been vague in the details of where he lived. On his CV, maybe? Jon wasn't sure, and even that was enough to deepen the pit in his stomach. 

As it turned out, Martin didn't live as far away as he’d worried, though he wasn’t sure exactly how long it took to get there. Maybe his sense of time was just another thing that felt far-off. He wasn’t even sure what time it was, what day of the week it was, or...any of the type of things he might normally try keeping track of.

Maybe he was just letting that nagging feeling of causing Georgie or the Admiral some harm get to him, even if he wasn’t with them anymore. But that was why he left, wasn’t it? It’d been in a panic, completely void of rational thinking, and he knew if (or when, he had to gloomily admit to himself) he came back, he’d have more than an earful from Georgie about it. 

He spent a good few minutes dripping feeling something cold deep down under his skin before he even bothered knocking at the door. He could barely make out the numbers, with raindrops sticking to his glasses in tight contained beads and wet hair falling in thin strands over his face. Pushing some out of his face, he made a half-hearted attempt at a knock at the door. 

No answer.

Could it be he wasn’t home?

No, it was late, it _had_ to be, and Martin didn’t seem to have much going on in the way of an active social life outside of work. 

He knocked again. 

And this time he found himself, to his horror, relieved at the sound of Martin’s voice from the other side of the door. 

“Ah, um, y-yes? Hello? May I ask who this is?”

“Martin, it’s--” the words came out in a hasty jumble, and Jon took a moment to right himself mentally. The last thing he needed to right now do was embarrass himself in front of Martin, of all people. Martin would force him into having tea before Jon could get another scattered sentence out. He needed to be calm. Once he felt relatively more capable of putting words together, he sighed and spoke again. “It’s Jon, Martin.”

There was a long, loud silence from behind the door. The rain outside was picking up again, falling in synchronous beams of water into the ground. The silence was a contained eternity, stretched out forever in a small span of time. Everything nowadays was taking forever, or no time at all. Jon shook his head, tiredly, responding nothing in particular. 

Perhaps in response to the lukewarm streams of water running down his face and neck, heated by his apparently shivering body. To get them out of his face, his eyes. Maybe to put aside the notion that maybe he’d been completely wrong in his panic from digging further into his brain. He felt that perhaps that "maybe" he was moving further and further away from a maybe, morphing into a definite yes, and it didn't make standing in vocal silence any easier. 

Or maybe it was the possibility that going to Martin was a terrible idea, because it might put him in danger, because Martin might not want him there. That made him experience a host of emotions he couldn’t put into words, but he found that disappointment, anger, and a sick, twisted type of validation were among them. 

A second or an hour later, Jon found himself once again surprisingly relieved to hear Martin again, this time from a small crack in the door. He couldn't make out much, just his eyes, quizzical and concerned, the way they always were. Gentle.

“Jon? I’m, I’m sorry but...it’s really _you_?”

Jon felt his heart soften making eye contact with Martin, but he'd be damned if he let the relief bleed through too much. 

“I...yes, it’s me, and not some kind of...worm hive, or anything of the sort. I...understand that must make you wary of opening your door to strangers.”

“Oh, well...well you’re not a _stranger,_ just...you're...Jon, you're...alive?"

“Yes. And decidedly not a ghost as a result of that. Nor am I the ‘Poltergeist of Slough’, or whatever that poem you accidentally left in the stack of case files was about.”

Martin gave a small laugh at this, and unlocked the door, opening it.

"Guess it's my turn to uh, to get scared and think you're a ghost."

"I don't blame you for thinking so. It shocks even me that I'm not dead."

Martin looked away for a moment, and then back at Jon. 

“Sorry, about all that. After the worms, well...you know.” Martin gestured vaguely. His place was small, sparsely decorated, but soft. In the literal sense, with lots of fleece and throw pillows, but in a more figurative sense, too. Maybe it was just Martin’s presence. 

“I do know. I understand.”

“And it was the ‘ _Specter_ of Slough’, Jon. Alliterative. Quite common in a lot of poems, actually. Don’t see it much in the way of ones written in a more sinister tone, however, w-which, which is what I was going for, actually. Part of a small series I am doing on the reversal of usage of literary devices in ill-suited genres.”

Jon sighed, though it wasn’t the long-suffering type of sigh he usually gave out of resignation to listening to what Martin was saying. In a way, he was glad he was hearing it. Listening to the tapes his mystery sender had been giving him only flooded his mind with information he did not want to process. This, at least, was easier. It wasn't terrifying. It wasn't wrapped up in some evil, unknown power. It was just Martin talking. Jon couldn't believe how much he'd missed it. He looked at Martin at did his best to smile. 

“That’s...very interesting, Martin.”

Jon didn’t know whether his tone conveyed annoyance or just a presently dour worldview condensed into feigned interest. He didn’t want to shut Martin up. Quite the opposite. At this state he’d even take getting a lecture on spider ecology. Anything to drown out his own thoughts. 

“Ah it’s, it’s not really, um, it’s nothing much, really. Just something I’m doing in my spare time. Oh, and, sorry, take your shoes off, if you don’t mind, sorry. Just a, a thing I have. About shoes on in the house.”

“I’d imagine it would be regarding shoes on in the house, yes.”

“Hah, yes, of course. Can...can I get you some tea, Jon? Or, or water? Well, no, no, I suppose that’s, ah, that’s a little ridiculous…” Martin trailed off. He didn’t make eye contact, but he didn’t usually. No. Something else was going on. 

Jon frowned. He sensed this was going downhill quickly. He’d followed Martin to the sofa, but would just as soon get up and see himself out as swiftly as possible. 

“Is...something wrong? I can...I’ll just leave, if I’m being a bother--”

“Oh, no, no--” started Martin, shaking his head and flapping his hands, “no, that’s not what I meant at all, I just...you’re really here, and...and _alive_. The police were at the archives, you know, asking all kinds of questions, where we thought you were, and, if we thought you killed that man, what we thought about you, and...well, I think they left thinking you’d died. After they spoke with Elias they just left and didn’t ask us anything else. And Tim, well, and Tim seems to think you did. He keeps saying, oh, he got all jumpy as soon as people had reason to suspect him, and, oh, he was worried about everyone except himself, so it had to be him. He doesn’t believe anything I say about the whole thing, honestly, even though I kept telling him and keep telling him I just don’t think you could do something like that and that you definitely aren’t dead. I mean, really, the idea you’d just, go off and murder someone, many someones, and then die it’s, it’s ridiculous. So, I, well, after, after all this, I’m just...I’m surprised you’re...here.”

Martin was quickly rolling his left knuckles over his right palm and made an attempt to meet Jon’s gaze. Jon found himself having trouble meeting Martin’s. He wasn’t sure when his hand had migrated to his pocket, but it occurred to him that it was on, the tape visibly rolling from where it was in his pocket.

_How long has it been on?_

_When did I turn it on?_

_Why would I turn it on right now?_

_Is something making me use it in particular circumstances?_

_Why?_

_Why here? Why does this moment matter?_

“I’m...a little surprised I’m here too, if I’m being honest. I...I don’t know how I got here.”

“W-what, like, you just, you just ended up here, no memory of how you got here, o-or--?”

“No, no, I mean…” Jon sighed, trying to think of the best way to phrase this, “I mean I don’t know how the past events of the last few...god, I don’t know, weeks? I don’t know how they led to this.”

“Yeah, it’s, um...well, a lot has happened, Jon. A lot is _happening_. I don’t think that these kinds of circumstances lead to a lot of events that um, that make a lot of sense. I mean, it’d, it’d almost be more strange for nothing to change throughout all of this.”

Jon spent a few moments in silence. Not thinking, or trying not to think, anyways. His mind seemed so prone to that, or more prone than it had before. Martin was right, but not in the sense that his answer provided a definite explanation for everything. Only the present circumstances. 

“I suppose that’s true, Martin. For the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“I don’t know what the lesser parts are. Before you ask.”

There was a thin silence that followed. Thin silences, unlike thick ones, are not filled with some kind of choking tension. Instead they’re strained, full of a lack of some kind of understanding. Jon could feel Martin’s confused gaze on him. The rain splashed off the thin roof above with a shallow metallic echo. Jon felt Martin shift on the sofa, into that oddly specific position he usually fell into. His voice cut through the silence, faintly, non-threateningly, like a needle through cotton.

“Jon, are...are you okay?”

The question seemed far away, even though there was about a yard between himself and Martin. 

Jon took a few moments, not to think about it, but to think about how to word it. Because he didn’t want to endanger Martin with this, but didn’t want to endanger him by saying nothing, either. When he finally found the words, he didn’t like the sensation of saying them. Martin was about to ask once more but Jon started speaking. 

“I’m not alright, Martin. I don’t believe I have been in some time.”

Jon felt something between him and Martin become more tense, more rigid. He felt both elated and disappointed with this. Everything that had happened in the past few weeks felt like wall that he was pinned against, without his own volition. He was sinking into it, he knew he was. And the last thing he felt like doing was asking for someone to pull him out. Better to let himself soak into it and let it consume him than get consumed beside someone else. 

“Have you been, um, have you been...been without a place for long?”

The question from Martin seemed to contain absolutely no words in English whatsoever. Jon hadn’t understood a word of it. 

“What?”

“Have you, like, um, been without anywhere to stay for a long time? I m-mean, since you’re here, and said it was your last resort, I um, I figured, you must not really have anywhere else to go.”

“Oh, ah, well...well, no. I suppose I’m not quite without a place. Do you remember Georgie Barker? She has the podcast? She’s come in a few times.”

“Ah, I’ve uh, I have met a lot of people with a podcast, and I’m not particularly good with names, or faces, unless they’re um, you know, like, easy to make into mnemonics? A lot of psychologists think that’s the best way to remember things, actually, I-I mean, I’m no psychologist, but--”

“Focus, Martin.”

“Right, right. No, I don’t think I do.”

“That’s...that’s good. Probably for the best. I’ve been staying with her for the past few weeks. Just...just trying to get myself together. She’s been...well, wonderful, actually. I don’t know why she actively makes the decision to _deal_ with me.”

“And, I’m sorry, you...you aren’t with her, because--?”

“Because I’m worried, Martin. No, more than worried. Some word that goes beyond worried.”

“Distressed? Overought?”

“Yes, fine. Either of those words. Martin, you don’t seem to understand. I can’t just tell her all of this.”

“Well, I mean, you...you never know, until you tell her. Just ask if you can, um, like, tell her everything, maybe? And maybe she’ll, maybe she’ll, er, I don’t know, maybe she’ll just so happen be able to help?”

Jon huffed, not happily. “What would I tell her? That I’m suspected of murder because of...I don’t bloody know, _monsters_ ? How would I tell her that they’re _real_ , to start with,” Jon raised his voice as anger coursed through his arteries, sick and hot, borne from anger at not understanding something. “And then, how would I tell her that that people who know they’re real all seem to die, or, or become monsters _themselves_? How am I supposed to tell her any of this, Martin? Tell me how I’m supposed to tell her without getting her trapped in this herself! All I could think to do was leave so she wouldn’t get in deep as this as me, or you, or whoever the hell else decides to get involved in this,”

Martin was quiet. 

Jon didn’t meet his eyes. 

He closed them and sighed, and muttered an apology with no justifications. He didn’t have nor deserve any. He felt tears trying to trickle from his eyes, and he was at a loss for whether they were from frustration, sadness, anger, or just a cocktail of broiling negative emotions with no name. 

He half-expected to see Martin gone when he looked up, but he wasn’t. And he didn’t seem hurt or afraid, just...concerned. Compassionate. 

Jon looked away. He didn’t deserve to see that kind of a look in the eyes of someone who he’d just yelled at.

The feeling of arms and a chest in such a close proximity to his made Jon panic, briefly, but the feeling subsided. Maybe because he knew he wanted this, some kind of contact, dearly, but couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. The Admiral provided it well enough, but it’d been a while since he’d gotten a hug from someone. A long while. When was the last time, actually? He didn’t care to speculate.

_Is tape recorder still on?_

_Does it need to be on?_

_Why is it on right now?_

_No matter._

He couldn’t check nor turn it off with Martin hugging him. And at the risk of getting complacent with the situation, Martin admittedly had a warm and a soft embrace. Jon found he quite liked it, actually. It was one thing he could and would let envelope him. Jon let himself savor it. 

Martin let himself savor it as well, and hoped his rapid heartbeat wasn’t giving anything away. 

After a few moments that lasted no time at all and a contained eternity simultaneously, Jon pulled away. He looked at Martin and hoped the concern carried in his voice, his expressions. He wasn’t beyond pleading, but pleading would make Martin worry.

“Martin. You should...you should quit, if you can. I haven’t told you everything, and...I suppose I can’t, because I don’t know everything. But I know there is something very wrong with the Magnus Institute. And I-I don’t think I can prove this, not yet, but...but I think Elias may have something to do why. But he’s far from the only person. Or...or the only... _being_ that makes it the way it is. _Nobody_ is safe there.”

Martin looked at him, and frowned. He looked like he was about to say something, but only gave a small sigh instead. He rolled his knuckles over the palm of his hand again, more quickly this time. Something he did when he was thinking, Jon supposed. He’d seen Martin do it before. He was thinking of what to say, how to say it. Jon felt like he knew the answer already, but the part of him that needed to know still needed an answer. Something else to add to a growing pile of evidence. 

An analog crackling sounded, muffled, from somewhere close to them.

 _The rain maybe_ , Jon had thought, but something about that sounded wrong.

“I...I don’t think, don’t think I can, Jon,” said Martin, “I-I mean, I um, I definitely thought about it, a few times. It’s not like I really have any qualification to be there, but I...I don’t know. I can’t. You know?”

A short pause. 

Exactly what he’d expected to hear. Tim said almost the same exact thing, and Tim had always seemed well aware how very wrong the archives were, to their absolute core. 

“I do know,” said Jon, long-sufferingly. “And I truly wish I didn’t.”

“Well, I, um...well I think I understand, at least? Does that...does that mean anything?”

“It...it does mean something, yes.”

“I know it...may not mean a lot when it’s someone as deep in it as you, but um, at least...at least you have me? I mean, you don’t, you don’t _have_ me, sorry, what I mean is, you can...you can talk to me.”

Jon didn’t answer right away, because he knew he couldn’t, not _really_ , not unless he wanted to put Martin in some kind of danger. 

But he did know, logically. 

That was all he had right now.

“Yes, I...I can. I suppose I can.”

Without thinking, once again, Jon reached into his pocket to shut his tape recorder off. Though he’d made an attempt to be subtle (why did he make that attempt, anyways?), it was clear Martin noticed. Jon froze in his gaze.

“You were...um, you were recording the whole time?”

“Oh, I...I...yes. And no, I don’t know why, Martin, Everyone always asks why. I never have an answer. I. Don’t. Know. I don’t even think I have any control over it to begin with, let alone the circumstances it happens in. Look, I’m...I’m sorry. I’ll-I’ll shut it off now if you’re--””

“Wait wait, no,” Martin interrupted, grabbing Jon’s wrist, “Jon, no, that wasn’t what I was, um, going to say. I...I don’t know how it makes me feel, but it doesn’t make me feel...uncomfortable? It makes me feel more, er, I don’t know...relieved, maybe? Grateful? I mean, I’m, I’m worried, Jon, but...maybe it’s...good to have this on tape?”

Martin let go of Jon’s wrist once he realized he may have been holding it for too long. 

Jon tried not to miss how it felt. 

“Martin, there is no way that recording everything on this tape recorder is good.”

“Well, no, maybe not everything, but...I don’t know, you’re all about...about proof, and, and having records of things, right? Maybe this could be a record for...for all the times that you think you can’t talk about this, you know? Like, if you didn’t want to talk to anyone about all you’ve been, um, going through? You could just listen to this tape and know other people understand, even if you don’t want to like, talk to them. It’s better than nothing. And it’s ah, a step forwards I think.”

A short pause. 

Jon bit his inner lip, pensive.

“Hm. Not a bad point on your part, Martin.”

“Oh, well…! Thank you.”

“I, uh...well, I’ll think about it.”

He gave Martin a tired smile.

Martin smiled back at him, softly, tenderly.

An infinitesimally small part of Jon wanted to stay with Martin to soak up the feelings conveyed through that expression. Feelings he knew he didn’t deserve to be feeling, not right _now_ , not from _him_.

A much larger part of Jon, however, wanted to leave, right now. 

“I should, um…” Jon got up from the sofa, “I should get back to Georgie's, by now she’s--” 

“Ah, wait, wait, no, um, it’s, um,” Martin stood up with Jon and took a step towards him, “I, um, that is, well. It’s just that it’s, ah, it’s really late right now, half past two, I think? Are you...are you quite sure you’d be able to make it make by yourself? If you, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like you walked all the way here in the rain, which--”

“Can’t really be seen by many people, can I, Martin?”

“Oh, well, um, yes, I suppose you can’t, but...but listen, Jon, pneumonia is a serious condition. I mean you, you can’t get it from the rain and cold, that’s a myth, but you’ve been sniffling since you got in here, and, well, if you have a cold, hypothermia can make it much. The air sacs in your lungs fill with, um, like, different fluids? Pus is one of them, and, ah, I think it’s like, it’s discharged bacteria or fungi from your body fighting the infection. That’s ah, it’s why it’s that milky, white texture--”

“ _God_ , Martin.”

“What? Jon, _several_ cases have detailed descriptions of pus, and I had to research it because you said--”

“Not right now, Martin. Is what I’m saying. Maybe at...some other point, alright? Just, god. Not right now.”

“Oh, oh...right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Martin, I,” Jon sighed, realizing he had little ammunition against Martin’s cosseting. ”If you’re really so concerned I’ll...I’ll stay for the night, alright? I don’t think I can cause that much harm in only a few hours. Hopefully."

Martin looked relieved, and it has some positive twinge in Jon. Something bright and positive that was extinguished soon after. It made Jon want to find the source of that brightness again, despite himself. Someone was after him. Something, maybe. He couldn’t start thinking in any other kind of mindset. He wasn’t sure if he could, ever again, past this point, and that thought alone made him shudder. 

“Jon?”

How long had he been thinking this?

_Is my tape recorder still on?_

_No._

_When did I turn it off?_

_Was this all...not...important?_

_What deemed “important” conversations”?_

_What were they “important” for?_

Jon tried to turn his mind off, but the questions pounded into his mind relentlessly. 

He looked at Martin, more dazed than he could afford to feel.

“Hm?

“I was ah, just asking if you...needed bedclothes? I mean I, I don’t think they’ll fit you, but…”

“Ah, no, no, that won’t be necessary, Martin. I thought you slept without trousers on?”

“Oh,” Martin blushed, “that was ah, just because I didn’t think to bring anything with me. Y-you know, maybe I should have, looking back, but, I was just so caught up in the moment, you know? And it’s not like I really knew where I’d be staying, either. Heh, Jon, it’s...it’s sort of like I’m returning the favor, isn’t it?”

“It is, yes. Sort of. I don’t intend on walking in on you working without my trousers on any time in the near future.”

“Well, that’s, that’s fine with me. Also, um, are you...are you sure you’re okay sleeping on the couch? I mean, the, the sofa is fine, but my bed fits two people. Got it at a discount, actually. Something about the springs being out of date and only a few mattresses fitting well, but I’ve never had much of a problem, maybe because my mattresses are also on the older side. Do you know anything about this?”

“Uh, no, I can’t say that I do, but...Martin, you are being preposterous if you are insisting _you_ sleep on the sofa. You're the one who lives here.”

“Oh, no, no, I mean, I’m just...offering the right side of the bed to you, is all. I mean you don’t need to say yes or anything, just...just that the options there and, it’ll...probably be more comfortable? I just think you need better sleep than a few hours on the sofa will give you.”

Jon scoffed, not unkindly. 

“You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

“Oh I...I hope I’m not, Jon.”

“I don’t mean that in a cruel way, Martin.”

“Right, right...I mean, no, no pressure. Whatever you want to do. Just, ah, just know it’s available, I suppose.”

Jon thought about it for a few moments. He battled with himself mentally over whether or not he should, regardless of what he _wanted_. His crushing wave of exhaustion won out in the end though, because he knew choosing the sofa would just mean Martin fussing about making him comfortable there. More than anything else, he just wanted to sleep. 

Eventually he’d have to return to Georgie’s.

Eventually he’d have to talk to her about...something. She’d want to know why he left so suddenly, and he’d need some kind of an answer, even if it wasn’t a complete one. 

Eventually, he would need to find out who killed Gertrude, who killed Leitner, what was _causing_ all of this. 

He would get to the bottom of it. 

He would. 

He _had_ to. 

But his muscles were relaxing, almost buckling, since he wasn't forcing himself to stand or sit anymore. Jon didn't know how tired he'd been. As hard as he always found it to force his mind to shut off, it seemed fine with ceasing its endless stream of thoughts right now. And that was relieving. Momentary as this freedom was, he'd enjoy it for what few sparse seconds he had of it. 

In these minuscule moments, he tiredly admitted to himself in the furthest reaches of his incessantly worried mind that the presence of Martin next to him on the uneven mattress, under layer after layer of fleece blankets, was nothing short of comforting. 


End file.
